After. Part 7

The woman's fingers feel heavy and far too warm.

"I just don't want you operating under some false sense of security. I want you to know up front what we're going against." The woman takes a breath in, lets it out. "And I'm sorry, but I'm just not getting the impression that you are facing up to any of this appropriately. I don't feel like you're taking your situation seriously."

Devon flings off the woman's hand, twists around to glare at her. "What, do you think I'm stupid or something?" She feels something ignite inside. "Do you think, even for one second, that I've ever, in my whole entire life, been in a place like this?" She narrows her eyes. "You don't know me; you don't know one thing about me. You don't have the first clue about what I do or do not take seriously. So, save the lecture." She stands up. Her voice actually shocks her, it's so icy, so mean. But she can't stop. "Just stick to the law part, okay? I'll handle the consoling Devon part."

The woman just sits there, her eyes on Devon. Devon is trembling, but still she holds the woman's stare. The silence between them is thick, the kind of thick that takes force to shatter, like a jackhammer.

Finally the woman pushes off her stool and slowly leans across the table. "Go ahead, Devon. Make me your enemy." She's speaking quietly with those measured tones of hers, but her words have heat to them. "Under the law, all you're ent.i.tled to is an adequate defense. That means the next time I technically have to see your sorry face is the next time we're planted in front of the judge. If that's what you want, then that will just have to be okay with me. But that's no way to win. And guess what, Devon? I like to win."

Devon can almost feel the woman's eyes searing into hers, shooting out little angry lasers.

"If you have any dreams in that head of yours that you hope to attain. If you've got any kinds of plans for your life besides rotting away in a place way worse than this, then I'd think you'd like to win, too. So realize this, Devon: I Am Your Future."

Devon feels herself deflate. She drops her eyes to the floor. She's not a mean, rude person. She's never even thought of treating anybody the way she'd just treated this woman. Not even her mom, who's more child than adult most of the time. Her mom, who still hasn't bothered to see what's become of her in the days that have pa.s.sed. Her mom, who hasn't come to reach out and touch her and tell her that everything will be all right because she'll take care of it.

But this woman, this Ms. Barcellona, this Dom, has.

The woman straightens, starts packing her things. The yellow legal pad. The sheet with Devon's charges written on it. The DAVENPORT accordion file.

Devon feels a tugging. The words are right there.

The woman-Dom-bends to lift her briefcase from off the floor.

Devon could say nothing, just let her go. She clears her throat, mumbles, "Okay."

The woman stops, looks over at Devon. Her eyes are guarded. And annoyed, like she has several other more important matters to attend to and has no time for Devon and her games. "Okay? Is that what I just heard you say? 'Okay' what?"

Devon looks down at the table. How can she make this right? "I understand," Devon whispers. "You are my future. I don't want . . ." She looks back up at her and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to be enemies with you . . . Dom."

Dom considers this. "You going to cut the att.i.tude?"

Devon nods.

"You're ready to work with me?"

Devon hesitates, afraid of what this "work" may require. But she has no choice, really. She nods again.

"Good." Dom smoothes her skirt and sits back down on her stool. "I'm going to try to meet with you at least once more before the hearing. It's scheduled for April eighth-that's exactly a week from today. In the meantime, I want you to work on three things for me, okay?"

Devon doesn't say anything.

"O-kay?" Dom says again, louder.

"Okay," Devon says quickly. She meets Dom's eyes so Dom will know that she's sincere.

"First, I want you to partic.i.p.ate in all scheduled activities here. That means attending school, eating with the other residents, doing ch.o.r.es. Anything that is required and anything that is offered, is mandatory for you. Second, get on the highest behavior status you can manage. You may not understand how it all works right now, but a staff member should explain the point system-"

"I read the booklet," Devon says, eager to demonstrate her ability to comply. "Last night."

"Okay, good. Staying on Regular status would be good. But working up to Privilege or especially Honor status before the hearing would be even better. The judge looks favorably upon 'model' residents. Third, I want you to work on a list of names, some people we can potentially call as witnesses to speak positively to your rehabilitative potential. Basically to say nice things about you, sort of like character witnesses: teachers, coaches, friends, employers."

A list of names? Of people to talk about her? Devon feels the panic rise. Impossible. She can't do that.

Dom is defining some legal concept, now, the Kent factors, which she's saying are eight specific criteria that judges must consider before sending a juvenile offender to the adult criminal court system. "Most of the factors are completely legal and fact based," she explains, "such as your age when you committed the offense, the nature of the offense-meaning, how serious it is-your previous criminal record, et cetera. We can't make much of an argument against those objective criteria; they are either true or they are false. But the area where we potentially can sway the judge is with the more subjective factors. So, that's where we'll need help from your character witnesses."

Devon watches as Dom flips to a page of her legal pad. "Here are some ideas. You're a soccer player. You play varsity for Stadium High School in the fall and a premier club pretty much throughout the year, correct? I think I've read that in your file. So, that makes potentially two different sets of coaches. And then you got selected for the Olympic Development Program last year. Could you explain to me what that-"

"No!" Devon is up, backing toward the door.

Dom looks at Devon, one carefully manicured eyebrow arching above her gla.s.ses. "No?"

Devon starts pacing. She'd rather stay here forever than hand a list of names over to Dom and then know that the people on that list would know everything about her, about IT. What would remain of her then? Not the person they thought she was.

She thinks about the charge sheet that Dom had tucked back into the DAVENPORT file. Murder. Abandonment. Mistreatment. a.s.sault.

She thinks about her coach. The way he'd smile with undisguised admiration after a game where she'd made an amazing save. "You're crazy, Dev. You scare even me."

She thinks about her teachers. She thinks about her teammates, the kids at school. She thinks about Kait.

Once they hear what happened, even if untrue, there'd be no admiration left. Devon would become someone to hate. To fear even.

"I'll do everything else, Dom. I promise! I'll be a perfect model inmate. Just . . . not that. Don't make me do a list. Please. I don't want anybody to know. . . ."

Dom puts the paper down, watches Devon for a long moment. "But, Devon," she says softly, "everybody already knows."

Devon stops pacing, looks back at her.

"Your story's been in all the papers. On the radio and TV. On YouTube, even. There's this reporter from the News Tribune who's very aggressively wanting to follow this thing from start to finish. She's contacted me several times already-she's e-mailed, left voice mails. She's stopped by my office, left messages-"

Everybody already knows? Devon feels her body go cold. The walls seem to close in on her, the painted white cinder block walls.

"That's definitely one thing that we're going to challenge, the use of your name in the media. I know it's not illegal, but that should not have been allowed. . . . "

Her name? In the media? Devon stumbles toward the table.

Dom's voice trails off.

Devon can't think or breathe. She collapses onto her stool, lays her head down on the table.

"I thought you knew, Devon, how huge this is." Dom quickly sifts through her DAVENPORT file, pulls papers out. "Here are copies of the newspaper articles, of what's been published so far. And copies of some of the police photos. I was going to wait to show these to you later, but . . ." She pushes the papers toward Devon. "Take these with you and read them, look them over. You really need to know what we're up against."

Devon doesn't lift her head.

The News Tribune. A reporter from the News Tribune had interviewed Devon once. She'd won the Golden Glove MVP award at State Cup last May, and the News Tribune wanted to tell the story. A photographer had spent forty-five minutes one day after school, posing Devon in the goal down at Stadium's field and snapping off pictures. They were set-up action shots, but they still looked cool. Her mom had cut out the article and slapped it into a frame from Wal-Mart. She'd hung her handiwork near the door to their apartment so no one with eyes would miss it.

Devon feels numb. Dead.

Everybody knows. Everybody. Everybody.

"Devon? Are you okay?" For the first time, Dom's voice sounds unsure.

Devon says nothing, not one word. She pushes herself up. She slides the papers toward herself. She slowly folds them into quarters. She closes her hand around them.

Devon lifts her face to Dom's.

Is she "okay"?

Will she ever, ever be okay?

chapter eight.

Devon waits until she's back in her cell, back on her rubberized mattress and alone, to unfold what Dom had given her. Her hands are trembling. The paper rattles.

She takes a breath and looks down at the creased photocopies, black on white. Clean, perfect font forming words arranged in rows and columns with block margins.

So innocuous. It could be about anything. She quickly shuffles through them.

Then she sees the pictures.

A sharp pain slams into her chest, seizes her breath.

One of the couch-the blood-soaked cushions, the crumpled blanket. And another of the bathroom-the blood smeared across the linoleum, a pile of soiled towels in the corner. And still another-a torn open trash bag, revealing the garbage contained within.

"Oh, G.o.d!" Devon pushes them away. The papers. .h.i.t the cement floor and fan out.

Devon can't breathe; she can't get enough air. She gasps like the salmon, just pulled from the Sound, as they flounder and flop beside the weekend fishermen along Ruston Way.

Devon shoves her fist into her mouth, bites down hard. Snot runs over her knuckles.

She wants to die. She truly wants to die. Because it's all there, right there on the floor. Right there in black and white.

Devon stares down, at the mess of paper there, for a long time. Her heart pumps fast.

Read them, look them over. You really need to know what we're up against. Dom's words. I Am Your Future, she'd said. You're ready to work with me?

Dom wants her to stand up and meet this straight on. Now. Not later. And Devon knows that Dom's right, she's absolutely right.

Devon struggles to get a grip. This is so unlike her, this melt-down. This is not how she operates. She's a pro at being calm when the entire world turns to complete chaos around her. In the goal or at home, she is the opposite of her mom, who lives in constant freak mode.

Devon is not like her mom. Right?

She is NOT like her mom!

Devon stares at the papers again, concentrates on them, the black on white. They are the ball sitting harmlessly on the gra.s.s before her. In milliseconds the striker's foot will send it hurtling toward her. But for now, it is nothing, harmless. It is just a ball. A round object with air inside.

She pulls her hand out of her mouth. She hugs herself, rocking forward and back on the edge of the bed.

Devon must take this. She must pick up the papers and look at them. Like facing a penalty kick, it's her job to deal with it. Even when she wasn't the player who caused the foul in the box.

Devon wipes her hands on the stiff polyester of her orange jumpsuit. She takes a deep breath, then pushes herself off the bed, reaches for the papers. She kneels on the floor and makes herself look at them.

The one with the trash bag is on top, and the bag is the first thing she sees-the black plastic torn and frayed-sort of framing the entire photograph. Her eyes move on to the other objects in the picture. The striped Tim's potato chip bag. The stripped toilet paper roll. The frozen juice container. The crumpled newspaper pages.

These objects are strangely familiar. Like artifacts from a place and time she's lived, but too long ago to clearly recall their specific connection to her. As her brain recognizes each object, one by one, she slowly starts to remember. And then, in a rush, she knows-she used those things. Those things were hers; she'd touched them all.

She'd touched them all That Night.

Before she can squelch them, her mind supplies the memories: The Tim's chip bag: she'd finished off the chips with a microwaved hot dog and a stale bun for dinner, sitting on the couch, The Simpsons reruns playing across the screen, her chemistry homework open beside her.

The toilet paper roll: she'd had to rush to the bathroom, sharp diarrhea cramps rolling through her gut. She'd reached into the cabinet under the sink with her b.u.t.t still over the seat, one hand fumbling for the new roll, the other clutching her stomach.

The frozen concentrate orange juice container: she'd made the juice before starting her chemistry homework-she was craving something sweet and cold and wet. She placed the frozen container in the sink and stood mesmerized as it thawed, the hot water a cascade pouring from the faucet.

The pages from the newspaper: she'd picked up the pile tossed on the floor outside her mom's bedroom door, the section with the personal ads lying on top, two prospects circled in black permanent marker.

That was her trash. She'd dropped it all into the Glad trash bag with the Quick-Tie, one by one.

And . . . the towels? The blood? The used tampons? The . . .

The images snap off. Stopped. Blank.

Her skin is p.r.i.c.ked and cold. Each hair is erect, every nerve alive. She's panting as if she'd just done pressure training at goalie practice.

She grabs the papers, mashes them into a tight ball, hurls it to the floor. But a caption from one of the newspaper articles catches her eye: MIRACLE BABY ANASTASIA RESURRECTED FROM CERTAIN DEATH WHEN PLUCKED FROM A TRASH CAN EARLY YESTERDAY.

Certain death. Certain death. Her mind pounds out the rhythm the syllables create. Certain death. Plucked from a trash can. Plucked from her trash can-her toilet paper roll, her potato chip bag, her orange juice container. Stuffed into her Glad Quick-Tie trash bag. Her hands. Her.

That's why she's here. That's why she's sitting in this walled-in cage. Her black trash bag and what was inside of it. That's what all the charges are about.

She squeezes her head between her hands.

And heaves her breakfast into her lap.

chapter nine.

The lock snaps open.